


One Day in October

by Raisincookies



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, Multi, Original Character-centric, Punishment, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2020-12-25 00:11:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raisincookies/pseuds/Raisincookies
Summary: Molly Adams still dreamed of the day when her handsome prince would sweep her off of her feet.  To bad that Brock Rumlow was the one who got the memo, and too bad that he was a little more dangerous predator than he was a prince.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been re-written since its original posting date.

****<strike></strike>

Your heart flipped nervously in your chest; like having butterflies, but the anxious kind, which were quickly followed by a violent and erratic thrumming of your pulse and laboured breathing. Sweating palms, light-headedness and nausea; a full-blown panic attack loomed in close proximity.

You tossed your blinking cell phone into your top drawer to get lost in amongst the empty chocolate wrappers, salt sachets and uncapped dried out pens and slammed it shut; letting out a long shaky breath as you desperately tried to collect yourself. Out of sight, out of mind.

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as you rubbed your temples; the tips of your fingers trembling erratically. You lightly covered your eyes with your hands; blocking out the airy white light of the atrium and tried to fight off your brewing headache.

You cursed your stupidity; how could you ever have been so foolish, and what on earth possessed you to go out with Brock Rumlow. Your lip trembled at the mere thought of his stupid name. You had been beyond baffled when he had asked you on a date; you remembered that day so clearly, albeit not for the happy, giddy memories you once clung to. You had no business dating someone like him. You had always been quiet; your shyness had robbed you of the outgoing charm and spontaneous vibrancy that most of your friends seems to possess in droves. Whenever guys hit on you they would quickly come to learn that you possessed none of the sultry confidence and alluring vivacity that they were looking for and they quickly backed off and moved on to the next.

Out of all your friends, you were always the single one, the perpetual spinster, the unattached, the bachelorette. Whilst they were off pursing their latest conquest you were wishing for the same but never with the confidence to actually go out and make it happen. Instead you distracted yourself by pouring over fashion blogs looking for inspiration for you next haberdashery creation or immersing yourself to a, probably, unhealthy degree in movies and books and crime documentaries. Your long desired pursue of finding the perfect man was exactly the reason why it felt like Brock had offered a tiny grain of hope; that maybe your extremely dry dating spell had finally been broken and Aphrodite’s fountain was about to explode into a cacophony of dancing and ABBA medleys, the doves would sing and roses and myrtles would flitter through the air like confetti.

You had been enamoured with him; towering and strong and broad, like a Greek god, he had made you feel precious and ladylike. He was ridiculously unfathomable; not someone anywhere near your league. You were the sort of girl who dated Allan, the guy from the IT Help Desk in work who you would call at least once a week to fix the photocopier. Allan was the guy who wore a tie with a short sleeved shirt, he was the guy who had clammy hands and the guy who never quite made you laugh.

Brock was different; he was the inconceivable. He was the tall, broad, bulging muscles front cover from a Mills and Boon. You wouldn’t immediately describe him as handsome; he was far to rugged for that. You had practically fallen off your chair when the wildly confident commander had stridden purposefully up to your desk at reception, flashed you a dazzling white smile and informed you that he wanted to take you out for a drink. You stuttered like a fool, not quite believing what was happening. Even if you hadn’t wanted to go, you would never of had the balls to turn him down. He had smirked cockily at you, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners as you nodded your dazed acceptance; your cheeks blazed a deep scarlet hue and your tummy flipped in nerve and excitement.

The other receptionists tittered and immediately rolled their chairs over to get the gossip as soon as he left.

“Oh, my goodness, I didn’t think any of that lot would date a civilian,” Heidi had gasped, referring collectively to the Avengers.

“What are you going to wear? Did he say where he was taking you?” asked Silvia.

“I can’t believe ‘Little Miss Innocent’ has a date with the bad boy of the base!” Hannah joked with a smile. You narrowed your eyes and gave your friend a playful shove.

“I’m not that innocent,” you muttered unconvincingly, “and who’s to say he’s a bad boy?”

You question rang in your ears and echoed there for some time; presumably around the brainless cavern. The first date had been lovely; Brock had been a gentleman and after drinks had called you a cab, given you a sweet and careful peck on the smooth apple of your cheek and wished you a goodnight. The following morning you arrived at your desk to find a small box of handmade Belgian chocolates on your desk; shiny and luxurious looking with their individual intricate decorations or wrapped foils. Your heart was giddy with excitement and nerves as you tugged the card from the red ribbon encircling it and smiled happily when you read his name on the tag in scratchy biro; thanking you for a lovely evening and asking if you could do it again some time.

The second date was even better, he’d driven you out to a restaurant in the nearby Adirondacks; a restaurant which would never have been in your receptionist budget. The weather had been slowly turning from fall to winter and the place had been ablaze with golden greens and fiery reds and almost everything in between. The restaurant was reminiscent of a log cabin, but the grandest log cabin anyone had ever seen with Nordic inspired decor and soft lighting which cast a romantic glow over everything. You daintily ate your meal, partly to savour every delicious morsel and partly to make sure you didn’t dribble butter down the borrowed dress you had pinched from Hannah’s wardrobe. Brock had fed you a fork full of his own kobe steak and dauphinoise potatoes; and, whilst you didn’t think you could ever stomach eating an entire steak as rare as he’d order his, you had let out a breathy moan as it practically melted on your tongue along with those soft, creamy, garlic potatoes.

When the end of the night came, you shared a proper kiss; his mouth moved roughly over your smooth lips and his tongue fought for dominance. Your nerves bubbled to the surface as you parted; you were unsure of what came next as the brief confidence from your two glasses of pinot grigio fizzled out. Your smattering of previous kisses had been nothing like Brock; those previous partners had left you wildly unprepared for his wilful mouth. And as you stood sobering in the chill of the late October evening your head thrummed with what you should do next; was he expecting an invite inside and were you ready for that. But you steadied your nerves and asked. What might happen next was implied by the soft wobble of your voice and he looked at you, his eyes darkening.

“Not tonight, babe. I need to get up early in the morning,” he told you as he threaded his thick fingers through your slender digits. He had a mission and would be gone for a few days so he rain-checked your invite. He kissed the back of your hand and then left.

That was when the phone calls started. And the texts. And the emails.

The first few messages were sweet, Brock checking up to see if you were okay, telling you he missed you and couldn’t wait to pick up where you had left off. At first, you were elated, excited that you were finally the recipient of sweetheart messages; someone cared, someone wanted to check up on you and sign off their messages with little crosses for kisses. But the tone rapidly began changed from sweet to accusatory; demanding to know where you were and who you were with and by the end of the week you dreaded hearing the melodic tinkling tune of a text message or logging on to you work computer in the morning to check what emails had been sent overnight.

A week went by and Brock had still not returned from his mission. You shuffled into work with heavy lidded eyed, still half asleep from a night kept awake by relentless phone calls as your cell had lit up like Times Square; you had stopped answering them a few days ago when the spitting venom in his voice had shook you and his wicked words had cut you to the core as they voiced aloud each and every one of your insecurities. You yawned loudly and scooted your chair over to pour a large mug of coffee from the machine before adding cream and sweetener.

Your phone buzzed again and that’s when you finally threw it into your desk drawer and slammed it shut.

You were still rubbing your temples when Hannah returned from doing the mail run.

“Rough night?” she asked.

You nodded sleepily and took a gulp of your coffee, “this day needs to be over and it’s still only 8:45AM.” you grumbled.

Your computer sprang to life and you clicked open your emails and gasped in horror, 83 unread emails from Brock Rumlow. Tears sprang instantly to your eyes and your lip trembled.

You were briefly aware of Hannah calling your name but it wasn’t until you felt a gentle hand on your arm that you tore your watery eyes away from the screen.

“Honey?” She asked, concern etched all over her face, “what’s wrong?”

Before you could answer a shadow loomed over your desk and you looked up into the extremely unhappy face of Harold ‘Happy’ Hogan; Mr Starks right hand man, maybe his driver, maybe his Head of Security.

He barked your name, “Come with me, please.”

He turned on his heel and walked several paces in the direction of the elevator before turning back and raising an eyebrow at you expectantly to follow.

You had to practically run to keep up with Mr Hogan’s strides as he marched you through the unfamiliar hallways of the second floor; a place you never frequented, a place for the top brass. Your loose auburn waves bouncing around your face with each hurried step. You weren’t sure what was going on, but you could tell that Mr Hogan wasn’t happy with you about something; he usually came across like an impatient uncle, but this was something more. Something angrier. He practically snarled at you in the elevator when you asked what was going on and since then you had taken to biting nervously on your lip and wringing your hands together.

Your eyes landing on Tony Stark the moment you entered the room and your breath hitched in your throat. You’d never before been called to a meeting with Tony Stark and he looked positively furious and it seemed to be completely directed at you; you warily took a step back and wondered how far you would get if you fled from the room. Iron Man be damned. Anxiety bubbled inside of you.

The woman to his right you recognised as Ms Shane, notorious bitch and Director of Human Resources for all things Stark. She was busy looking you up and down with a disapproving look cast on her overly made up face. She was harsh-looking and angular; the type of woman who had long since sworn off any type of carbohydrate in the quest of a lean 1980’s aerobics instructor physic. She gestured a bony hand to the seats opposite; an ostentatious ring glinted in the light.

“Sit,” she instructed.

Warily you slide into the closest one. You heard the door behind you click shut and glanced briefly over your shoulder, Happy was keeping sentry at the door like an aging mall cop.

Your eyes flickered back to Mr Stark who was still staring at you darkly with pursed lips. You couldn’t look at him; you had no clue what you could possibly have done to invoke such anger in someone like Tony Stark, your bosses, bosses, bosses, boss. The guy was a god damn hero; he was au faire with facing the enemy and witnessing the worst kind of people, it was inconceivable to think that you had warranted the same look of displeasure. You looked down and tugged nervously at the sleeves of your navy sweater.

Ms Shane spoke curtly to you, “you know why you’re here I presume?”

You shook your head, your curls bounced on your shoulders, “No, ma’am. I’m sorry, I don’t.” Your voice shook meekly in the quietness of the room.

A loudly frustrated sigh emanated from Tony Stark and he rolled his eyes as he slid a battered and torn FedEx box across the table to you. You looked at the box and then up at him questioningly.

“Open it,” he instructed. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee in a show of relaxed dominance; his eyeline never wavering from you.

Timidly you pulled the box closer to you and slowly opened the half-torn lid. A glossy black and white photograph, A4, was packaged neatly inside; it took a moment for you to understand what you were looking at.

A female, her dark waves piled high on her head, holding a book just in front of her chest, protecting her modesty as she lay in a bathtub of soapy bubbles.

“That’s me,” you spoke slowly and almost to yourself; your brain was working a few beats behind. Your face scrunched in confusion.

You carefully picked it up, it was then you noticed another photo stacked neatly underneath. This time there was no book to preserve your dignity as both breasts peaked teasingly above the surface of the bath water in full view of the camera.

Your face flushed bright pink and your belly turned. You snatched it up and turned it over on the futile off-chance that nobody else saw it. That’s when you saw the next one. You let out a whimper of embarrassment and covered your mouth with shaking fingers before frantically starting to leaf through each photo; each one bringing with it a new level of humiliation, distress, confusion and upset. Various stages of undress and angles; different rooms of your apartment, the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. One of you on the balcony as you sucked on a menthol cigarette after a few glasses of wine.

Your face turned scarlet and your whole being burned in shame, your earlier headache erupted, and your head swam. Your hands shook and eventually you looked up at Ms Shane as the nauseous feeling in your stomach grew.

“So,” Ms Shane began tartly, “do you now understand why you’re here?”

You nodded dumfound.

“And you must surely know to send inappropriate content of this nature is a sackable offence?”

You recoiled and shook your head as your eyes welled up with tears.

“But I didn’t send these, I swear I didn’t. I would never.”

Your voice was cut off by a sob. You’d never been so embarrassed. Did these people really think that you would take these candid photos of yourself and post them to Mr Stark? For what gain?

You knew of Mr Stark’s past; the pictures of him all over the internet proved, to a certain extent, that the rumours had been true about his playboy ways. Beautiful women had sought him out and draped themselves against him for the cameras to achieve their 15-minutes of fame. There was no denying that Mr Start was a handsome man, his power and the notoriety probably increased that ten-fold to some people. He was also funny and charismatic and engaging and kind. But what sort of idiot would you, personally, have to be to send him trashy photos of yourself; displaying all of your lumps and bumps and think that a freaking superhero would drool over them and declare his undying love for you?

“You’re being placed on unpaid leave until a full investigation into your conducted has been complete.”

You sat dumfounded.

“Effective immediately,” Ms Shane informed you with an air of finality, “Mr Hogan will escort you to your desk for your personal belongings and then see you off the premises.”

A tear curved around the apple of your cheek as you listened to your fate, no pay. You were as good as fired. You sucked in a breath and steeled yourself not to start sobbing right then and there.

“But my job…” your voice cracked. “I didn’t do this.”

“If that’s the case then you have nothing to worry about; you will be cleared once our enquiry concludes. If that’s all, this is no longer up for debate.

You blinked and sorely wonder what debate Ms Shane was referring to. There had been no debate; just a scolding and a dismissal.

“This way, Miss.” Mr Hogan’s voices came gruffly from behind you.

Robotically you started to tidy together the shameful pictures, stacking them messily and cramming them into the box with trembling fingers.

Mr Stark cleared his throat.

“You’ll need to leave the pictures here. As part of the investigation.”

Your lower lip trembled, and you hugged the box tightly to your chest.

“I don’t want anyone else to see them,” you whispered. “They’re of me.”

“That’s as it may be. But they’re part of a formal investigation now and as such they need to be retained. They will not be public fodder, only those directly involved will see them.”

Mr Hogan reached over and tugged the box free from your grip and handed it to Mr Stark while you watched despairingly before being led away.

Mr Hogan had watched you suspiciously as you numbly moved around your desk, picking your personal belongings and changing from your work shoes into thick socks and pleather navy combat boots. Hannah threw her arms around you and hugged tightly, promising to call around straight after work. You gave her a watery smile and left before full crying could commence.

You’d always hated how emotional you were; you would have thought after all the shit you’d been through in your 23-years you would have toughened up by now. Your parents died when you were only young, barely old enough to remember them really and that was when you’d moved in with your aunt. Your aunt had been kind, in her mid-20’s, and not ready to be saddled with a kid when all of her friends were out having fun. It must have been frustrating for her but you had been all the family she had left after her sister had died in a car crash. Your aunt died a couple of years ago, sepsis. Quick and without warning.

You mentally tried to calculate how long you would be able to survive without an income; you had no rent, your aunt had left you the apartment in her will. But the bills would be a struggle and would eat quickly into your meagre savings. Millerton was a small town; it was the type of place which ran busy in the summer with tourists traveling up to the Adirondack Mountains, but winters were deadly quiet and once the tourist season came to an end so did most of the seasonal work. The job at the compound had been a god send, the town had been buzzing when construction had begun and hope of new jobs being created in an area where work could be scarce at the best of times. Steady salaried work that was most likely gone now that your employers suspected you of being some kind of sexual deviant.

It was now nearing mid-day and the air was clear and crisp; it would otherwise have a been a beautiful day for a walk but instead you lowered your head and trudged from the compound grounds to the bus stop. Your breath was foggy in the air and the fresh temperatures nipped a little at your exposed skin. The first bus to pull up was the long route which took three times the usual commute, but you had no desire to loiter and clambered on flashing your pass to the driver.

You finally made it past the front door and froze as the nerves hit you. Whoever had taken those pictures had been in your apartment, planted cameras without you knowing.

You crept through the rooms trying to recall specific angles from the seedy pictures. The one in the bathroom was easy to find, peeping over the edge of the pot of your flourishing spider plant on a shelf at the end of the bathtub. A small flat black disk with a convex glassy lens, no bigger than a quarter. It took a while searching but eventually, you located another five.

Routing desperately around the television you suspected would be another ideal hiding place; the sound of your rummaging quelled the click of the front lock being picked and the soft tread of thick souled boots on the hardwood. It was only when a strong arm synched your arms to your body and a heavy hand covered your mouth did you realise that you were not alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its been a while since I posted part one and since then I've changed the narrative of the story; trying to tell it from OC's eyes rather than third party. I hope the way I've written this update isn't too confusing.
> 
> Warnings: This chapter includes hints of domestic discipline and violence towards OFC; please do not read if this upsets you.

A wail of pain emanated from your bleeding lip as you collided into the floor face down; the impact winded and stunned you for a second until a solid hand gripped your slender ankle and yanked you backwords. Your belly sliding over the floor resulting in your sweater and pleated skirt pushing up with the friction. Your jaw burned as it grazed against the rough woollen rug until you managed to whip your head back. You cried out as Brock roughly twisted you on the floor until you lay face up and then he was on you; your arms flayed as you tried your best to punch, scratch and slap at him. Your nails scraping at his flesh; fighting back, trying to cause any damage, regardless of how minimal it might be.

A stray knitting needle lay on the floor and within your grasp; tossed conveniently earlier in the tussle, you snatched it up tightly in your fist, wielding it like a makeshift knife and aimed it blindly into Brock’s shoulder. He let out a snarl before backhanding you so viciously you could practically feel your teeth chatter.

He pulled the needle from his arm with a soft squelch and threw it aside; it clanked somewhere near the kitchen. He laughed darkly before easily grasping both of your wrists tightly in one hand and pinned them above your head. He leaned forward and nuzzled his nose against your neck and breathed in deeply; your cringed and cried out as unshed tears blurred your vision. His breath was hot and uncomfortable against your bruised flesh. He raised his head and looked down at you; his angry expression was one you had never seen before; full of darkness and malice and hatred. He sneered.

“You think you can fight me?” he spat; drops of moisture sprayed across her face and she cringed.

You looked up at him in fear, long gone was your Mills and Boon cover boy and in his place stood a maniacal force of terror. His eyes glinted coldly at you and held a darkness from which there was no light. Any hint of his playful grin had also vanished and in its place was a snarling and ferial sneer. The ribbons of muscle which once held you as he charmed you with his boyish playful appeal now instilled panic as you tried and failed to fight off his hulking form.

A sob caught in her throat as a hypodermic needle flashed in the light of the room. Did you really think you could win against him? Of course not, but you wasn’t going down without a fight. His heavy body crushed against your; his legs curling around your thighs and pinned you immobile as he sat on your pelvis.

Your body ached, your lip quivered, and thick tears blurred your vision. A sharp pin prick pierced your hip through her clothing and burst into your flesh.

He buried his nose into your hair and breathed in deeply.

“Delicious,” he muttered.

You grunted and twisted, using all of your might to try and push him off, you let out an anguished cry; you were momentarily stunned when you did it. Suddenly his crushing weight lifted from you and you could breathe again. The heavy pressure which had been constricting your lungs was gone. You had heard about things like happening; the superhuman strength of mother trying to lift an impossible weight to save her child. You had read about it; seen the pictures of them afterward, happy and healthy and alive.

Air invaded your lungs as his weighty pressure was gone albeit the wiggling blurring of your brain seemed to get worse. You rolled clumsily onto her belly and used your tired arms to try and push yourself to your knees but something else caught your arms; a pressure which was thick and unyielding and suddenly you were sliding upwards like the room was doing somersaults and your eyes rolled around in your head like a cartoon animation. Your stomach lurched.

You looked over drunkenly as you flopped ungainly, a ungraceful tangle of your own clothing and limbs. You watched in confusion, an unwitting spectator, as Brock was on his feet and fighting someone, you didn’t know who. Brocks hands clenched into fists as he struck out in powerful, unrelenting swipes; but his opponent was just as strong and fought back with fluid counterattacks which matched his strength, and speed and skill.

You blinked at the sight and your eyelids burned.

Only a second had passed, presumably, but you felt very different; in fact, everything was different. Your nose twitched, you were barely awake, but very conscious of the pain which seemed to throb on one side of your face, your ribs, your wrists and your knees. Your mouth felt like you’d decided a month ago to live off of a diet of sawdust and cotton-balls. Looking around you were unequivocally positive that you had no idea where the hell you were. You were in your apartment just a second ago; you thought.

Your head ached.

You blinked and looked up at the ceiling; Brock. Brock was the reason why you hurt all over like you’d been body slammed by a sumo wrestler then rolled on by an elephant. Someone else had been there; in your apartment, fighting. Your face creased in confusion. You remembered stabbing him with the knitting needle and brought your hands up to study them, residue of dried blood caked in the creases of her fingers and your nails were broken and torn.

It had actually happened.

You sucked in a panicked breath and sat up, perhaps a little too quickly given the ache which deepened in your ribs.

The door on the opposite side of the room gently pushed open and you stared quizzically and dopily as Dr Cho peeked her head around the doorframe and gave a soft spacy smile.

“How’s the patient?” she asked.

You relaxed into the pillow; you knew Dr Cho from being at the compound. Despite being a brilliant scientist and world-renowned leader in R&D for Stark Enterprises she somehow still managed to occasionally return to her roots as a plain old general practitioner. She personally had run first aid courses for all employees when you had first started you job there; plus sent fortnightly emails on a whole host of topics from healthy living to how to deal with stress. It was almost laughable that this powerhouse woman was the reason why they now had ‘Fruity Fridays’ at work.

You glossed over the question, “Brock?” she rasped slowly; your lips struggling to move in time with your brain as you willed out the name.

Dr Cho smiled sympathetically at you and crossed the room to perch on the edge of the bed.

“Gone,” she told you simply. “The important thing now is to make sure that you’re feeling better.”

Surprisingly there were no serious injuries despite the wrangling you had taken in your apartment; you were bruised and battered but nothing was broken. The little torch which Dr Cho had shone into your eyes in the dimness of the room had felt like it was burning your retinas and it was a pure blessing to be ordered to look up, look down, look left and look right away from its burning glare.

You were bruised and cut and grazed and scuffed, but these would all heal quickly.

“You should try and get some more sleep.” Dr Cho suggested as she handed over a bottle of water with a paper straw and a couple of ibuprofens. “You can sleep off that headache; that alone will help you feel a bit better.”

You choked back the pills with no hesitation and greedily sucked up the water, downing the bottle in mere seconds and leaving you a little breathless as the exertion. You scrunched your face at the suggestion of sleep; sleep would be impossible, you had too many questions. It was imperative that you found out where Brock was; you needed to make sure you weren’t in more danger. You needed to find out where you were, who’s bed you’d woken up in, what had happened during that blank void in your memory. The mere notion of sleep was ludicrous at a time like this, you thought as your eyelids closed and your mouth gapped; a soft snore emanating from your bruised lips.

Steve Rogers was an old-fashioned guy from an old-fashioned time. When he and Buck had been boys messing around in the streets of Brooklyn and getting up to no good his mother would’ve taken a belt to his backside. He would have been sent to his room contrite and probably without supper. He was a gentleman, now-a-days he was the type of man that childhood story books and Disney movies were made about. He was the man who held open doors and rose from the dinner table to greet female company. He was the guy who didn’t swear in front of ladies for fear of insulting them. At the compound, he was guy who all the woman, and some of the men, swooned over. The man who would treat them right, keep them safe and love them with everything he could.

He might have been all of those things, but right now, his last nerve was being gotten on by the pint-sized brunette and he was beginning to think that perhaps his mother had the right idea. Instil some much-needed old-fashioned discipline and put this behaviour to bed once and for all. If he was in charge, she wouldn’t be sitting comfortably any time soon; he growled at the thought. He was usually in charge, he wasn’t sure why this situation was any different.

He had let himself into her room earlier, Dr Cho had instructed both him and Bucky to keep a close eye on her, and he’d smiled to himself as he briefly watched her sleep before gauging that she was okay. She starfished unapologetically in the middle of the bed, her curls had grown a little wilder and they lay splayed out across the soft white pillow. Cherubic pink lips parted as she occasionally let out a soft snore, thick and impossibly long lashes fanned the apples of her cheeks and her hands fisted at the crisp white duvet.

In that moment the girl had held an innocence that Steve had long ago forgotten existed in this battle-weary world. In that moment Steve understood what Brock Rumlow saw in her; and just for a moment Steve almost sympathised for the man. There was still a part of him, the man or monster, which needed something pure to remind him of what he had been before. But Steve wouldn’t let that happen; Brock was too far gone to find his way back from the all-consuming darkness of Hydra, too big a job even for the angel which slept before him.

But the angel had awoken and grew horns.

You felt nauseous, and wobbly and generally out of sorts. Your body ached from the attack at the same time as your mind spun; you couldn’t remember how you had gotten from the Compound to the old Avengers Tower in Manhattan. When the hell did that happen? Your memory was patchy; brief images of Dr Chow flashed in your mind but you couldn’t be certain if you’d imagined it. If you couldn’t remember that, what else were you forgetting? You supposed this must be your fight or flight mode kicking in; you’d read about that once in a book as well, it was all very confusing. Your last coherent memories were being tossed around your living room by a psychotic Avenger and now, here you were, stuck in a secured building with two more. You couldn’t pinpoint at which specific moment your life had become a weird juxtaposition between boring and mundane, and life-threating and vomit inducing.

But here you were, clad in nothing but a pair of pyjamas, which weren’t yours, and clutching a bedside lamp above your head as though it was a baseball bat.

“If you move that lamp so much as an inch, I swear I’ll put you over my knee and give you a spanking you won’t forget in a hurry,” Captain Rogers barked, pointing a warning finger in you direction.

The audacity.

Your jaw dropped and the blood roared in your ears, you stared up at him in shock and for a second the room was silent. Steve Rogers, the golden boy, the politician; then the indignation set in and you narrowed your eyes dangerously at him. Well, as much danger as you could possibly muster in your partially drugged up, pyjama clad, bird nest hair state. He hadn’t just said what you thought he just said; had he? You ignored the quiver in your belly that those words gave you. You gripped the lamp tighter, your fingers curled tightly around the brass stem; the cord still attached to the wall.

He stared back, his eyebrow raised in an unspoken challenge as Sergeant Barnes crossed the room between them and plucked the lamp from your grasp before you did something stupid.

“I’ll take that,” he told you cheerfully as though the battle of wills which raged around him wasn’t really happening. To be fair it wasn’t much of a battle; you generally veered on the petite side of human growth; you would never admit it but you held limited leverage in who might have the upper hand in this scenario. They’d been charged with childminding, imprisoning or guarding you, depending on which way you wanted to look at, you weren’t exactly much competition for the two enhanced soldiers. It was like putting a bunny rabbit in a pen with two starved lions.

Bucky couldn’t exactly blame you for your reaction to the situation, despite wishing for you to be a tad more compliant about the whole thing. It was fair to say that none of the three of them wanted to be in this situation right now, all three could think of things they’d rather be doing, but alas that was not what fate had in store for any of them today.

He placed the abused lamp back on the side table and turned back to the fuming Steve and you; their shell-shocked ward.

“What did you say to me?” you screeched. Your fists clenched in anger and your cheeks turned rosy pink with what Bucky had deduced to either rage or embarrassment.

Steve glared at you, his face contorting to that similar to an angry father reprimanding his teenage daughter for sneaking out of the house; his legs parted in a solid stance and his thick arms crossed over the broad expanse of his chest. His shirt pulled tighter as the buttons somehow maintained their valiant effort to remain attached to the garment. His domineering presence in the room was hard to ignore. You swallowed thickly.

Bucky held up his hands and waved them defensively between the two of you. Like an independent adjudicator at a wrestling match.

“Okay, okay. Time out.” He made a T shape with his hands; black metal digits meeting with his flesh palm.

He silently mused at which point he and Steve had reversed their roles. These days he seemed to have become the peacekeeper; sensitive to the emotions of those around him as he picked up on little nuances of others behaviours. Recognising when someone was being too quiet or too defensive or closed off.

Steve on the other hand had become more frustrated, more short-tempered and slightly less empathetic to others. Not to say he had become cold or no longer cared, it was often a subtle change in Steve’s temperament which could easily be missed by people who hadn’t known him for 100 years or so.

Steve tilted his head gesturing behind you with a condescending tone, “_that_ is specially designed 6-inch-thick, bulletproof glass. Its designed to withstand 30,000 rounds from an automatic weapon; you lobbing scatter cushions from Bed, Bath and Beyond won’t make a dent on it, sweetheart. Even if, in the unlikely event, you did manage to shatter one of those panes with all those goose downs; you’ve then got a 1000 feet free fall before you reach Park Avenue.”

“I said time out,” Bucky nipped pointedly. “Squabbling like a bunch of 5-year-olders isn’t going to make this situation any easier.”

Steve growled, “she’s the one acting like a child; maybe she needs treated like one.”

Bucky gave him a side-eye, “not the time, pal.”

He turned to face you.

He spoke your name gently, your anger dissipated and you looked up at him with wide wary eyes; pure and blue and filled with confusion. A little part of Bucky wanted to pull you to him and crush you against his chest and keep you safe forever so you would never again need to deal with the Brock Rumlow’s of this world.

He gestured toward himself and then to Steve.

“I’m Bucky and this is Steve.”

He heard Steve scoff behind him, “I think she knows who we are, Buck.”

Bucky turned his head and glared at his best friend who subsequently had the good grace to look a bit more contrite. He turned back to you.

“I know it must be hard, but you’re not going anywhere until we have Rumlow under control. I know you don’t what to hear that, but its just the ways its going to be, doll.”

In response you clenched your jaw and narrowed your eyes.

Thank you so much for reading. I hope the way this was written isn't too confusion at it switches between OC and Steve and Bucky. Comments are always welcomed


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